A stranger approaches. Melbourne Central train station, a Saturday afternoon. Heading towards 4.30pm.
'Excuse me,' the young man says quietly. I meet his brown eyes, behind his spectacles. We stand at right angles to each other.
Pondering how many coins I have in my pocket I note the man's tidy dark hair, neat olive T-shirt, well-fitting jeans, and coloured sneakers.
Maybe he just wants to ask about the next train.
He is perspiring a little, above his top lip.
Carefully he says 'I need to try to conquer my ...'
But I miss the last word, due to my poor hearing, the man's accent, and the noise of the platform. Twenty metres away a group of teenage girls giggle about something. An automatic voice announces a departure on Platform 2.
Did the man say 'shyness'? Or 'phobia'? Or 'condition'? I remember once being asked, at Queen Victoria Market, a handful of survey questions by an overseas student practising his English. Perhaps this man is attempting something similar.
'Can I talk to you?'
It is a bare question, naked in its simplicity, moving in its humanity.
The man relaxes a little when I answer. A hint of a smile on his lips, in his eyes.
'You are waiting. For the next train?' he asks.
I say Yes and ask if he is also waiting.
'I am going to work. Here in the city.' The words are neatly placed, like train carriages.
'What sort of work do you do?'
'Kitchen hand. In Swanston Street.'
I ask if he works in a café or a hamburger place or a Japanese restaurant or an Indian take-away but my sentence is too long. He stands puzzled.
I ask again, but with less words.
'Chinese take-away,' he replies. His perspiration is receding.
'A Chinese take-away,' I confirm, imagining the man among pots and pans and woks, among knives and peelers and spatulas. Among meats and vegetables and spices.
The automatic voice announces the next train for Platform 3. The flock of teenage girls further down the platform giggle again. They sound like birds in trees.
I ask the man if he is studying.
'Yes. I am studying hospitality at TAFE.'
'Hospitality at TAFE,' I repeat.
'Yes.' He smiles. Confidence in his eyes.
'Is it a one year or two year course?'
'Two years. I am in my second year.'
I am about to ask if he hopes to become a waiter or a chef or a café owner or a motel manager, when he shifts the conversation.
'Your train is coming